


Market Day

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient Rome, Auctions, Bondage, Celts, Community: wordsontongue, Kissing, M/M, Master/Slave, Name Changes, Past Abuse, Possession, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-29
Updated: 2011-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-26 00:04:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At public auction in the market, something precious is on sale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Market Day

**Author's Note:**

> Ancient Roman AU, written for the 2011 wordsontongue fiction roulette using prompt #7: barter. Beta'd by the ever-wise savageseraph. Thanks a bunch!

They dragged the dirty, ragged Celt to the platform, thrusting him ahead, pushing him up the short steps until he tripped and fell, landing heavily on already bloodied knees. Manacled as he was, hands cuffed at the small of his back, ankles connected with a short length of chain, there was no possibility of rising to meet the jeers of the crowd. Instead, he crouched on the boards, glowering at the assembly, streaks of grime obliterating all but the glittering hate in his green eyes.

Merchants, traders and the odd nobleman looked on, the man a minor curiosity, one of a handful of Brigantes to make it this far into the heart of the Empire. Yet the board the Quaestor displayed to these potential buyers told his story in no uncertain terms: His age was undetermined, but he was strong in body and spirit. His intelligence was average, but as with all the Barbarian tribes, his education was non-existent. He would be best for work in the mines or the fields, but let the buyer beware, for he was stubborn as an ox and required a strong hand and much discipline.

"Our starting price today is eminently affordable," the Quaetor exclaimed, running a hand lightly over the man's bedraggled hair, "as the master of this fine specimen of manhood is extremely motivated to sell."

A titter ran through the crowd; it was common knowledge that, not later than this very morning, the slave had bitten his master in an attempted escape, causing some small amount of damage to the man's hands, and gaining him little more than a severe beating. Rumour had it that this was not the first attempt at freedom, but whether that was down to some flaw in the Celt's character or his master Orlandus' own weakness was still under discussion by the busiest of tongues.

With no more preamble, the Quaetor opened the bidding, and soon a merry war was underway. For some, curiosity won out over sense, and even as the price crept higher, a few bidders kept on. Through it all, the slave stayed silent, staring through the assembled mob as if they were not there at all.

As Carolus, a sometimes munerarius, looked as if he was about to purchase himself the raw material for a new gladiator for the steep price of three hundred and twenty-five denarii, a nobleman who had remained silent stepped to the front of the crowd.

"Six hundred," he shouted, ignoring the murmurs of surprise around him.

Carolus laughed. "Six hundred is a fool's price, Viggo, and far more than he is worth."

The man inclined his head, a faint smile gracing his lips. "Then it should be no trouble for you to step aside so that this fool may claim his prize." He waited a long moment, and when all he received was silence and a dismissive hand-wave from Carolus, he approached the Quaetor.

"You understand the terms of the contract? You have been made fully aware of his defects. We will not take him back if you claim ignorance later on."

Viggo nodded. "Of course." He wet his lips, letting his gaze slide over the bedraggled Celt even as he was dragged off the platform, into the shadow of the stage. "I do not believe I will be letting this one go."

Easily grasping the intent behind the look, the Quaetor chuckled, already holding his hand out for payment. "You may very well be a fool. He will murder you in your bed before he becomes a body slave."

"What I do with him is my own affair." Viggo let the small purse drop into the Quaetor's open hand, the clink of coin easily drowning out the sharpness of his tongue. "Deliver him to my household before the end of the day, and let no more be spoken on this matter."

The Quaetor's hand closed around the purse, red knuckles whitening as he gripped the little bag tight. "Of course." He nodded, waving the way to Viggo's new purchase. "He shall be in your possession no later than the close of cena."

Viggo smirked, every inch of him radiating satisfaction. He stepped close to the slave -- now chained to a beam, neck bowed, hands above his head, wrists taking far too much of the weight of his slumping form -- and gripped his chin, jerking it upward. Those startling green eyes blinked open, meeting his own, the arrogance in them barely masking what looked like a bone-deep weariness. Viggo turned his head from side to side, inspecting what little of his skin was unmarked with grime. "Does he have a name?" Viggo addressed the air, not bothering to turn his head, too busy examining the dark finger-shaped bruises ringing his slave's neck.

There was a rustle of parchment before the Quaetor spoke. "None on record. His last master called him Marcus, though." He chuckled softly. "You might do the same. Not that he answers to anything at all, mind you."

Viggo nodded, gripping the slave's chin tighter. He held the man's head firm as he leaned in and kissed him, tasting grit and grime, musk and blood. As he deepened his kiss, letting it grow more possessive, a spreading wave of desire, he felt the first flicker of resistance, a tightening of body and soul. He stroked his free hand down the side of the slave, luxuriating in the feel of tense muscles, taut skin, even as he let his tongue flicker between the man's lips. Yet a moment later, there came the faintest yielding, the slave's body canting forward, pressing ever so slightly against Viggo's own. He could feel his smile growing more smug as, when he finally pulled away, he heard the softest regretful sigh.

He glanced to his left. The Quaetor had tactfully turned away, giving his winning bidder a moment to revel in his prize. Viggo's grin grew ever bigger, for it gave him the moment he had anticipated. Rubbing his cheek against the slave's, he murmured in his ear, " _Sean_ ," and was rewarded with a jerk of surprise. "In a few short hours, you will be under the protection of my household." He stroked his fingertips down Sean's neck. "I told you I would come for you."

Stepping back from his new charge, Viggo gave him a cursory slap on the rump. "No later than sunset," he admonished the Quaetar, fishing another denarius out of his robe. "I am not a patient man." The coin arced through the air, landing neatly in the Quaetar's outstretched hand.

Viggo waited for a nod, then turned on his heel and disappeared into the market; despite ages of searching and too many brooding nights, not once did he glance back.


End file.
